


how much i’ve been touching you

by isozyme



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Angst and Porn, Bad Idea Sex, Civil War (Marvel), Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Infidelity, M/M, nobody has a good time, unhealthy everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isozyme/pseuds/isozyme
Summary: Steve loves Tony, but not enough to listen about the SRA. He loves Sharon, but not enough to stop coming to Tony late at night.
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 184
Collections: You Gave Me A Stocking 2019





	how much i’ve been touching you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kiyaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiyaar/gifts).



> Happy fandom stocking, Kiyaar! I wrote you some turboangst <3
> 
> Thanks to Sineala for making this extra sad, and Starksnack for proofreading!

Suck on my fingertips until you kill all my prints  
So your boyfriend has no clue  
Of how much I've been touching you  
_\- Her Space Holiday, Something to Do with My Hands_

* * *

Rain sluices down Tony’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Every so often the wind shifts, and the downpour slams into the glass mid-fall like an open-handed slap.

Tony sits in the corner of the open floor plan, his back to the windows. He can see all the exits. Extremis informs him that it can have him armored up and prepared for an attack within 3.56 seconds. He snaps an order for it to drop the significant digits to two. Sixty milliseconds is informational chaff; his reaction time alone varies enough to obscure the difference. Extremis improved his reflexes, but the latency still introduces a few hundred milliseconds of noise. There’s enough in his brain without receiving junk precision.

Someone is in the elevator. The lights are off inside it; someone with enhanced night vision has punched out the fluorescents to foil his security cameras. Infrared is enough to detect broad shoulders and a tense stance, but not to pick out a face.

Tony could drop the elevator car with just a thought and strand whoever it is in a dead-end basement bunker.

It’s not trust that keeps him from doing it. It’s a combination of calculation and hunger.

The elevator pings, muted under the storm outside. The man inside puts a shadowy hand out to keep the doors from closing, staying in the dark. The warm uplighting scattered around Tony’s lush living room doesn’t reach him.

Tony artificially increases the gain on his vision. Extremis multiplies the photons hitting his retina, and the contrast increases.

A white star blurs into focus on the figure’s chest, followed by a shock of pale hair. His cowl is down. Proud brow, lantern jaw, eyes so blue they edge towards grey.

“So,” Tony says, rolling his next words between his teeth like ice in a rocks glass, “business or pleasure, old sport?”

“You know it’s not business,” Steve replies, and, yeah, Tony knows, but he’s a hopeful guy, and he likes to dash his dreams on the rocks. It’s telling that Tony would rather Steve walk in with a plan to negotiate rather than to give Tony his body. Six hundred deaths ago Tony would have given anything for Steve in his bed. Now he just wants Steve to call him an Avenger and read the drafted superhero legislation Tony’s sweet-talked out of the Democratic whip. He has the papers right here. He always does, everywhere he goes. They’re in his head, twelve-point double spaced courier new, all two hundred and fifty-three pages.

He’d recite them word for word if Steve would listen.

Tony stands, turns his back to Steve, and watches the rain. He also watches Steve stride out of the shadows like a hunting thing, using security camera PH-06’s single-channel feed.

Steve’s hands settle on Tony’s hips from behind. His breath is hot on the back of Tony’s neck. Tony finds himself waiting for a killing bite at the base of his skull, for the crunch of vertebrae and the soft fade of betrayal.

 _Do it,_ he wants to say. _I’ll still be a monster, but at least I’ll be a dead one. It’ll happen eventually. It’s part of my plan. I’d rather it be you._

Instead, Steve’s hands slide around his waist and come to rest with his thumbs hooked into the front of Tony’s pants and his chest pressed against Tony’s spine. His body is heavy — Tony is forced to throw a hand up against the window to keep from being pushed into it.

“I can’t do this to Sharon,” Steve whispers into Tony’s skin. “I can’t do this, I can’t.” He repeats it over and over, even as his fingers work their way down his pants to cup where Tony is still soft in his underwear. _I can’t, I can’t._

Obviously, he can.

Tony’s going to have videotape of this. On his security feeds, where he can erase it. In his head, where he can’t. It would be easy to destroy Steve with a simple tip to the news. One video could be faked. A dozen is evidence. Every few nights for a month, Captain America is fucking Iron Man, in the middle of their war, touching him like his life depends on Tony’s skin.

Tony won’t. He can’t do that to Steve, even while Daredevil’s silver coin burns a hole in his breast pocket, alongside his AA chip and a picture of Damien Sharpe. Instead, he watches the videos back, and sobs, and touches himself until he comes.

His dick still isn’t starting to fill, even with Steve’s fingers getting rougher, more insistent. A quick request to Extremis fixes the problem. _Helicine arteries, cavernosal arteries: vasodilate. Delay: thirty seconds. Ramp-up: two minutes._

It’s not that Steve doesn’t feel good, even if he’s not being gentle, despite the fact he hasn’t kissed Tony or said more than a handful of words since stepping out of the elevator. Tony’s exhausted, and his body doesn’t always do things without direct commands these days. He’s traded a lot of things away for more control. He’d do it again.

Steve saw Sharon tonight. Tony’s surveillance system picked it up because Tony’s system picks _everything_ up.

Tony twists in Steve’s possessive embrace so they’re at least face-to-face, then twists a hand into Steve’s hair and yanks him into a kiss. He needs this. Tony’s so hungry for Steve he’ll settle for anything. Steve groans and Tony bites the corner of his mouth, inelegant and vicious. If Steve’s going to ruin him, Tony’s going to take something back.

He lays his cheek against Steve’s, breathing deeply for the scent of Sharon’s shampoo. They’re not so serious that Steve keeps toiletries at her place, so he uses whatever’s in her bathroom. Besides, it’s a bad strategic move, leaving things where SHIELD can get at them. Tony smells nothing -- Steve’s hair is dry except for a hint of grease and sweat.

“So,” Tony whispers, letting his beard brush the shell of Steve’s ear, “in too much of a hurry to see me to have a shower before you left Carter’s apartment? Or did you want me to suck your dick with the taste of her still on it?”

Steve slams Tony into the plate glass window behind him with more force than he usually exerts on non-powered humans. Tony’s golden undersuit blooms unconsciously over his chest. _No,_ he tells it. _Let this happen._

“That’ll be a yes to both, then.”

“I love her!”

Tony smiles with his nastiest grin. “Never said you didn’t, Cap.”

He’s had enough talking for the moment. Tony eels out of Steve’s grip and drops to his knees. He’s amazed at how quickly Steve’s belt buckles and the tricky fastenings of his uniform pants have become familiar under Tony’s fingers. Steve’s cock is hard and flushed as if he hasn’t had any in weeks, as though he hadn’t gotten off inside Sharon barely hours ago.

In many ways, Tony and Agent Carter are on the same foundering ship. Both struggling to pass registration. Each with a hand on Steve, neither able to keep him from slipping away. Steve loves Tony, but not enough to listen about the SRA. He loves Sharon, but not enough to stop coming to Tony late at night.

Steve smells like cunt and come. Tony takes him in his mouth, feeling the dried leftovers of Steve’s evening rehydrate and mix thickly with his spit.

It’s disgusting and degrading, being Steve’s filthy second choice. Tony doesn’t fucking care. This is one of the few positions where he gets exactly what he deserves. Steve’s abs tremble when he’s getting his dick sucked how he likes -- Tony gets to know that now.

They’re right in front of the window; anyone with a good telephoto lens who knows where to look could catch them. Steve’s got his iconic star on his chest, facing out towards the storm. It could happen, and the fallout wouldn’t even be Tony’s fault.

Steve’s shirt falls to the floor with a thump and a jingle of mail, and the moment of opportunity is over. He pulls away, not fast enough to avoid Tony giving him one last possessive suck, to undo his boots and shuck the rest of his pants. The whole time he stares at Tony with open, desperate want.

There are bruises on Steve’s chest where Sharon’s kissed him. He’s got a smudge of lipstick that he failed to rub away at the apex of one deltoid, where someone laid a sweet press of a kiss after he’d taken off his shirt.

Tony rises and sheds his jacket, his own shirt, his slacks, lying them over the arm of his window seat until he’s down to tight black briefs. Now they’re on even footing, except for how Steve could crush his bones into pixie dust, and Tony could call up his personal killing machine in 3.6 seconds. Now they’re even, except nothing.

They fall onto one of Tony’s low couches and make out like teenagers: like their whole lives are ahead of them and all they care about is each other. Tony wants to crawl inside of Steve’s skin and wear him like a trophy. With cruel precision, Tony lays his mouth over the fresh love-bite Sharon left on Steve’s collarbone. He sucks blood to the surface, covering her bruise with his own.

Steve groans and clutches Tony to his chest like he wants him there.

Tony suspects that Steve hadn’t wanted to risk their friendship if romance went south. Unlimited access to Tony’s dick had failed the cost-benefit analysis. But now they aren’t friends: obstacle removed.

“I have lube in my belt,” Steve says, taking a break from biting marks into Tony’s shoulder. Steve’s fingers pull at Tony’s ass, spreading him as his hips roll against Tony’s front, making it obvious who he’d like on top.

“Get it,” Tony says, greedy for Steve to take him. Steve’s simple when he fucks; his body speaks loud and honest. With Steve’s dick in his ass, Tony knows where Steve wants to be: harder, deeper, faster.

Steve leans back and holds Tony’s head still so he can search his face. “I wish I didn’t want you so much,” he whispers, thumbs stroking the wrinkles at the corners of Tony’s eyes. “I shouldn’t be doing this. I should --”

“You should go get your lube and fuck me already,” Tony says, grinding his thigh against Steve’s bare cock to remind him what he’s here for.

Tony works his underwear off while Steve rises and searches through the heap of his clothes. _He wants me,_ Tony thinks, holding the thought in his mind like his last candle in the dark. _He wants me so badly he’ll throw over all his ideals just to have me. That counts for something. I broke Captain America’s fidelity. Me._

It’s not enough, of course.

Steve lifts Tony like he weighs nothing and positions him with his knees on the couch cushions and his elbows resting on its back, bent and ready for Steve. Tony shifts his legs farther apart, shoring up his balance in preparation. Steve makes a satisfied rumble deep in his chest and Tony hears the quiet sounds of him slicking up. Then there’s a wet finger swiping up his ass crack, cold with lube and rubbing over his hole. Steve probes inside with the tip of his thumb. He tugs at Tony’s rim, up and to each side, brusque and invasive.

Tony used to fantasize about Steve’s hands.

He’d thought about being slowly worked open. He’d thought about getting fingered while Steve wore his red leather gloves, the extra bulk a challenging push, and Steve would compensate for the lack of feeling by drinking in Tony’s every reaction, careful and attentive. Tony had pushed a slim, buzzing toy into himself and imagined Steve finding his prostate with one hand while his other wrapped around Tony’s cock and milked it dry.

Steve pushes his thumb deeper, up to the meat of the second knuckle. The rest of his hand rests tackily over Tony’s tailbone, the lines of shield-calluses on his palm rubbing rough against Tony’s damp skin.

Then Steve’s got one hand gripping Tony’s hip and he’s rubbing himself up and down between Tony’s cheeks, the head of his dick catching briefly on Tony’s rim a few times as he tries to find the right spot.

It doesn’t take Steve long to get lined up, and then he’s pushing home in short, determined strokes. He’s slick, but it still tugs back and forth at Tony’s skin, a small, disorienting inversions of outside and inside.

Tony groans because it feels _good_ ; Steve’s cock always feels good, even when it comes along with pricks of pain. Maybe especially then. Steve seats himself fully, then gets going properly, confident and quick. Tony shuts his eyes and lets himself enjoy it, gasping in time with Steve’s harsh breaths. There’s a lot about fucking Steve that hasn’t lived up to Tony’s fantasies, but he’d been right about one thing: when you get down to brass tacks, Steve is a great lay.

“I almost said your name tonight,” Steve says, curling his body over Tony’s and switching to a more brutal pace. Tony whines as Steve hits a tender place inside of him with too much force, then again as Steve adjusts the angle and nails him in the sweet spot. “I was making love to Sharon and she was so beautiful when she moved with me, but all I could think was _you._ ”

Trust Steve to bring guilt back into this.

“Leave her,” Tony demands.

In response, Steve’s hand curls over the anterior curve of Tony’s trapezius to yank him further back onto his dick. Tony snarls. It hurts, and he needs more.

“If you’re going to fuck me, the least you could be is honest about it.”

“I love her.”

“Yeah, you said that already.”

Tony grips the back of the couch as Steve takes his emotional response to _that_ out on Tony’s hide by pounding him harder.

It’s teeth-rattling, punishing sex. Tony prides himself in enduring it, turning violence into pleasure, wringing whatever he can out of Steve. He’s a little afraid Steve is going to crack the frame of the sofa. Steve is everywhere all at once, and Tony can barely breathe. There’s no room inside him for lungs. His arms start to give up, and then his legs, but Steve just holds him in the same position, like he doesn’t care if Tony can support himself as long as he’s able to keep shoving deeper inside him.

Tony can feel when Steve rounds a corner and starts to drive toward orgasm on the straightaway. Tony shuts his eyes and lets it happen, reveling for a moment in being just a thing used for pleasure, a non-person, a fucked-open hole that doesn’t need to do anything except take and take and take.

Steve grunts, his lips smeared against the meat of Tony’s shoulder. His hips stutter, close, and Tony thrills at giving Steve what he needs.

He comes buried in Tony as deep as he can. Steve pushes himself into Tony’s ass until his rough pubic hair is practically tickling Tony’s swollen rim, then stays there almost motionless, Tony impaled on him, interrupted only by a few spasmodic jerks.

Tony thinks Steve is done when he draws out and peels Tony’s cheeks apart to look at what he’s done, treating Tony to the incontinent feeling of come running out of him and down his leg. But Steve plunges back in, Tony’s opening sloppy with jizz, and his hips jackhammer twice before he’s coming -- again? Still? -- in more long, possessive pulses.

Steve stays inside Tony, hard and immobile, even after that. Tony imagines Steve refusing to pull out, keeping Tony clamped against him, until he softens and Tony’s ass isn’t even for pleasure anymore, it’s just a nice place to put Steve’s dick. That’s what Steve thinks of him anyway: a warm hole with an inconvenient mouth. He won’t love Tony, but at least he can use him in bed.

Steve keeps Tony there without removing his dick for so long he _does_ start to go soft. His breathing gradually evens out, and his grip turns from bruising to supporting. He strokes an open hand over Tony’s chest, slowly up and down Tony’s midline. Tony feels like a horse being rubbed down after a hard run. Good job, Black Beauty. You won the crown! At last Steve unseats himself, and come drips once more across Tony’s skin.

Then he picks Tony up and gently arranges him so he’s sitting upright on the couch. He runs a hand over Tony from the base of his throat to the ridge of his hip, skating along the underside of Tony’s rib cage as he goes. He kisses Tony on the forehead. This is worse. It’s so much worse, after.

Tony’s bare ass is disgusting against the leather couch cushion. He’s still hard; Steve didn’t try to give him a reach-around. That’ll take care of itself. Or it won’t. Tony doesn’t care.

Between Tony’s knees, Steve sits back on his haunches and bows his head. He’s rubbing Tony’s trembling thighs with warm, steady hands. Tony closes his eyes and tries not to love it. Then Steve kisses the inside of Tony’s thigh just above the knee, and again a few inches higher, and Tony realizes what his sex-addled brain was too slow to catch.

_No, no, not this, please no._

He forms the refusal on the next breath, but his vocal chords don’t engage, and it comes out as a silent puff of air.

Steve’s mouth is soft when it reaches Tony’s cock. He’s perfect, wet and hot and determined. Tony looks down and there are tears on Steve’s cheeks.

He should grab Steve by the hair and give him something to really cry about, fuck down his throat as brutally as Steve took his ass. Choke him until his nose runs and his face is soaked with spit and tears. Instead, he holds still and lets Steve give him the sweetest blowjob he’s had in years.

Tony begs his messed-up body to come. If he comes, this will be over.

It takes too long. Steve’s gentle hands knead Tony’s thighs and soothe the creases of his hips. Tony has a friction burn on one knee but not the other. The asymmetry bothers him.

Finally, he’s able to smother his brain for long enough that sensation takes the wheel, and he comes into Steve’s awful, lovely mouth. It’s a shitty orgasm. The shittiest part is how the flood of sated neurotransmitters softens his resolve, and he cards his fingers through Steve’s sweaty hair where his head leans against Tony’s inner thigh.

He does it again and again, greedy for self-punishment, and hopes it punishes Steve too. This is what it could be. This is what they both want and Steve’s too bullheaded to give.

 _Tell me what to do so you’ll stop hurting me,_ Tony wants to beg, except he knows the answer; the point is moot.

Steve will ask him to put short-sighted moral purity over what has to be done. But that’s not Tony’s job. Tony’s job is to make the ugly compromise and let everyone hate him for it.

People wonder why he wants to start drinking and never stop.

Steve’s hands linger on Tony’s body as he stands. This part is the worst because Tony can imagine what it would be like if Steve loved him enough.

Tony watches as Steve gathers his clothes, muscles flexing in the golden uplighting as he bends. His back is cut into planes as sharp as crystal facets, almost eerie in its perfection. Steve’s skin glows like polished marble, still sheened with sweat from the effort of taking Tony apart. He pulls plain y-fronts on, standing on one graceful leg than the other, body held in perfect lines like a dancer even while he dresses. Then he dons the uniform pants, the maille, the belt, and the cowl, in meditative succession, until he’s every inch the Captain again.

His eyes never flick to where Tony lies debauched, and his lips, kissed slack and red a moment ago, have thinned into a line of determination. He seems to come to a decision and nods to himself.

“We can’t do this anymore,” Steve says, not meeting Tony’s gaze. “I won’t be back.”

Tony sighs. “You’ve said that before. And look where we find ourselves again,” he says. He knows Steve means it when he says it, but his resolve has always broken eventually.

Steve doesn’t answer right away, but Tony can feel his eyes back on him. The patter of rain on glass is audible while Steve waits. Tony finally looks at him, and Steve holds eye contact.

Tony’s stomach begins to drop, without him even knowing why.

Then Steve speaks. “We’re over,” he says, and Tony knows it’s the truth.

The howl that opens inside Tony is silent at first. By its grace he can sit, still and outwardly unaffected, until the elevator doors close behind Steve.

Then Steve’s gone, and it all breaks out of Tony’s body in a wail. He crushes his knees into his chest, presses his forehead into his kneecaps, and screams through gritted teeth. The pain is too big to have a label. It’s not grief yet, not guilt, not fury -- Tony can’t categorize it, he’s too busy feeling the simple, child-like flood of _I didn’t want this to happen and it happened anyway._

With a thought, Tony erases the past two hours of surveillance footage, wiping Steve’s digital footprint in his home.

He’s exposed and sticky, like something abandoned newly-born. If they’d done this in anything as dignified as a bedroom, Tony would have a sheet to clutch around his shoulders and a pillow to cry into. Here there’s nothing, minimalist design offering nothing so kind as a throw blanket to wipe off with or wrap up in.

Steve’s come is in Tony’s ass and smeared on his thighs and Steve is never coming back.

Tony digs his fingernails into his shins until the skin begins to peel up underneath them, and sobs like something being beaten to death.

* * *


End file.
